Come a Tinker, a Tailor
by Quisp
Summary: Tommy Gregson comes at once in response to Holmes' voice mail, but takes his time after.


_**Come a tinker, a tailor…**_

'…if inconvenient, come all the same…. Please.'

As the last voicemail finished, Gregson stifled an impulse to throw the phone on the floor and grind it under his heel. He reminded himself that impatience was natural to the man. It came with the package. Take the man, and take the insurmountable fact that he will be forever oblivious to the entire concept that others may have such things as lives, or priorities that don't include responding to the demands of Sherlock Holmes' demands—priorities such as keeping an appointment with good divorce attorney—or that, afterwards, not to mention after one long fucking day negotiating with NYPD's bureaucracy—not to mention civil mayhem—a man might want a quiet dinner and a stiff drink, or at least a stiff drink, before answering his fucking voicemail!

'If inconvenient…!?'

God dammit! That was nothing but a calculated disguise for a calculated rudeness. 'Manners! Master Sherlock!' Somewhere along the line, a stern nanny must have given that nasty brat an excellent thumping. Gregson was tempted to do the same. Often.

Yet the pleading in that 'Please'…? Humble was not part of the package.

Gregson pocketed the phone, waved at the bartender, pointed at his scotch—O'Shea's was used to cops—and was out the door, buttoning his coat as he ran.

Holmes' brownstone wasn't far. It was dark, though, and no one answered the bell. However many times he punched the button the echoing chimes faded away. Briefly, he dithered on the stoop. Not that he doubted but Holmes was home—there would have been some hint in the message otherwise—it was a question of using the key on his ring—which meant that he might have to explain why he had the key in the first place—and how he came to have it—or calling for backup. He tried the knob. The door was unlocked.

With the lights flipped on, it was only slight relief that there was no evidence of an emergency on the first floor, but where was Holmes? The air was chill and still, indicating that the furnace had been off for some time. He had a vague memory of Joan saying she intended to visit her brother. Then in the silence, he heard a thrumming through the wall, an intermittent, deliberate, bumpety-thump. He surged up the stairs, gun drawn.

On the second floor, the rooms were open, and empty, thank God, including the bathroom, too often the location where a junkie's body is found. One flight up, though, the front bedroom was shut. Soft yellow light glowed through the transom, and through the cracks between the door and the frame.

Gregson was less cautious. A floorboard creaked under his foot. The thumping was louder and becoming desperate. _Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!_ He pulled the door open, lunged into the room, and…halted.

"What the fuck?" said Gregson.

The ceiling light, a naked forty watt bulb, possibly the last forty watt incandescent light bulb still burning in five boroughs, revealed Sherlock Holmes, bound and chained to a frame that had been firmly attached to the wall with screw eyes and bolts.

The ceiling light, a naked forty watt bulb, possibly the last forty watt incandescent light bulb still burning in five boroughs, revealed Sherlock Holmes, bound and chained to a frame that had been firmly attached to the wall with screw eyes and bolts. Holmes—if one were not counting the blindfold, the blue-tooth receiver in his ear, the shearling slippers on his feet, and the pair of black leather mitts on his hands—was wearing nothing but his soft brown pelt.

"You know, it's the accessories that really make that outfit."

"Thank you," Holmes said.

"You look cold," Gregson said, holstering his gun, and noting how the mitts were buckled onto Holmes' wrists by leather cuffs that had been enhanced with d-rings, through which looped the chains securing him to the frame.

"I am," said Holmes, using a slippered foot to scratch an itch on the other calf. "A bit."

"May I ask what's going on? Not that certain answers don't suggest themselves, but it's you, and I want to avoid leaping to the wrong conclusion."

"That is considerate of you, Captain Gregson, but you are not wrong. This is exactly what it looks like. It's unfortunate I had to call you, but it happened that the lady whose professional services I engaged for the evening had an unexpected emergency come up."

"Hmm…" Gregson took a moment to scan the room—playroom, actually—a well-equipped playroom, despite possessing a certain utilitarian quality—the only furniture in the room was a table against the wall with one chair tucked under it. The chair had a vinyl covered back and seat. At least there were chintz curtains at the windows. He strolled over to the table, noticing that Holmes, blindfolded as he was, was able to follow his movement.

The table supported an impressive array of toys—whips, paddles, rattan canes, and a good old-fashioned flat-back Mason Pearson hairbrush. There were harnesses, straps, rings, butt plugs, ball gags, dildos and nipple clamps with bells and dangling chains. There was an interesting selection of personal lubricants, including a tube of emollient gel notorious for its reeking blend of coconut and peppermint oils, and rosemary extract. The stuff smelled like a coconut bomb, but the cap was easy to pop with a thumb. Gregson knew from personal experience that—not that he would have admitted it—that, although it stung at first, its warming properties were considerable. There were three peacock feathers.

"What kind of professional services does the lady offer?"

"I should think it was obvious. She occasionally helps me act out fantasy scenarios but, as she was unable to keep our appointment this evening, I was left high and dry, so to speak."

"I see." Thoughtfully, Gregson picked up something from the table that looked like a tulip bud. It was purple and had a flexible stalk. There was a button on the side of the stalk. When he pushed the button, it began to hum and gyrate, and the bud opened up into a flower

"That's the wisteria model," said Holmes.

"Thanks for clearing that up."

"My pleasure," said Holmes.

"May I ask why it was me that you happened to call?"

"I could have waited for Watson, but she isn't planning to be home until tomorrow afternoon; I didn't want to ruin her visit with her brother. Besides, she doesn't really approve, and it would have been uncomfortable. For her."

"Mmm…."

"And messy!"

"Did I say anything?"

"I cramp easily."

"Pity."

"I realize that this has to be embarrassing for you," Holmes said. "Less so for you than for me, though, you have to admit."

"No, I don't." Gregson put down the flower and picked up a soft plastic orange cock ring.

"Fair enough, I suppose. But, look, since you took your time getting here, would you mind unshackling me? The keys are in the locks, but I couldn't quite reach them."

"No." Testing the tensile strength of the cock ring Gregson squeezed it between his fingers. "Not yet."

"Oh, fine." Holmes breathed the sigh of a Christian martyr. "Go ahead, Sister Mary Francis Katherine Immaculata," he said. "Read me the riot act."

"No." Gregson pulled the chair out from under the table. He dragged it across the floor, planted it backwards directly in front of Holmes. Straddling the seat, he set his elbows on the backrest, propped his chin on one hand, and squinted through the eye of the cock ring at Holmes. It was a fine view. "Not a snowball's chance in hell you're getting off that easily. I left most of a glass of twenty-five year old McCallen on O'Shea's bar."

"I'll buy you fifth of the stuff to make up for it."

"Not good enough."

"What do you want then?"

"Tell me this fantasy of yours."

"Excuse me?"

"The one where you're blindfolded and shackled. How do you see yourself getting into a mess like that—you being such a fucking clever dick, and all."

"It's a personal fantasy!"

"Well, you've shoved your personal fantasy in my face."

"You're not being fair!"

"Listen to me! A, Life is inherently 'not fair' and B, I'm outta here." Gregson made sure that the chair slapped the floor, as he stood up.

"All right!" Holmes nostrils flared. "I made someone angry."

"Surprise. Surprise. Who's the someone?"

"A man!"

"Who? Tinker, tailor, candlestick maker…?"

Holmes let puff of breath. "Let's just say…a policeman."

"Oh? Uniform or plainclothes?"

"Plainclothes."

"What rank?"

At first it didn't seem Holmes was going to answer, but at last he ground out, "A captain! He's a captain."

"And you can make this police captain so angry that he…?"

"Yes, that he… That we…"

Gregson shifted the chair so that it scraped the floor. "You know I have other places I can be."

"You are being a right bastard. All right, in my fantasy, he's punishing me."

"This police captain?"

"Yes."

"How?"

The question produced another bout of silence, until Holmes admitted, "I don't know. At first, I thought he'd kidnap me. That wasn't a good play—I'd be hard to subdue alone, and he's not the kind of man who would compromise other people in his crime."

"Thank God for small favors."

"I think, maybe, he drugs me…"

"But, he has no qualms about that?"

"He would. Certainly he would, if this were his fantasy, and not mine. I can't do all of the heavy lifting here."

"Let it pass, then," Gregson said. "So this unknown police captain roofies you, and…?"

"I pass out and, when I wake up, I'm here, but I have no idea where I am. All I know is that I'm naked, blindfolded, bound and shackled, and that it's cold… For the first time, I begin to understand what it is to be at the mercy of someone more powerful than I am. You could argue that it's an exercise in empathy.

"I'm not going to."

"I didn't think you would. Nonetheless, I'm angry, finding myself in this predicament. And frightened. Then I sense there's someone in the room with me. It's a man. I can tell by the weight of his footsteps and I know it's him by the way he smells of old scotch and warm wool, and it's the same aftershave that he always wears… It's one of the things I like about him, that smell. I try to make him angry, so he gets in my face, and I can smell it. He's warm…I like that, too. Realizing that, I wish that he was touching me…"

"What happens next?"

"He rapes me," said Holmes.

"What the hell!" Gregson was on his feet with his hands balled into fists, lest he give into the temptation to wrap them around Holmes' neck.

"Given the scenario I'm describing, how could it be otherwise? Except…" Blindfolded as he was, Holmes looked up at the ceiling. There was desperation in his voice. "Remember, it's a fantasy. It can't rape, because I want him to do it. I've never had the courage to try to seduce him. I've wanted to but…with most people, I wouldn't care, but I would if he turned me down."

Suddenly shaky, Gregson reclaimed his seat. "What if he didn't? What if it turned out that this man had feelings for you?"

Holmes' tongue slid along his lips, as he worked that thought over. "In that case, he might play along."

"How would he do that?"

"Different ways. It depends. Sometimes, he puts me over his lap with my cock between his knees and spanks me until my ass is burning. Oh God! You should feel how I come! These chains can be looser. Sometimes, he tells me what he'd like to do to me and I get a hard from the sound of his voice, and thinking that he's looking at me."

Holmes was telling the truth. His cock had risen, probing its blind eye in Gregson's direction.

"What else?" Gregson said, noticing that the frame had been set on tumbling mats. A body, or bodies, falling on them would, most likely, not be hurt. He heeled his shoes off, one after the other, and stood up. "Tell me what else."

"He plays with me. The thing is I'm chained; I can't touch myself. He's close, teasing me…" Holmes' voice went dreamy. "Tickles me, like that, and holds my balls in his hand. I can feel the pressure of his finger…" Holmes sighed. "His lips are kissing my neck, while he strokes me… I'm close to coming in his hand… He lets and walks away, and leaves me alone, standing there like a fool, knowing how desperate I am. Maybe he's laughing to himself." Holmes stopped talking. "I… I'm sorry. This was a mistake, wasn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know," Gregson said. "Even in fantasies, you have to take a risk sometimes. Tell me more. What is he doing?"

"He's thinking… There are toys in the room…and lubes… I hear him rummaging on the table… Now, he on the mat behind me, and I wonder if he's going to fuck me with one, because…he despises me…"

"You jackass," Gregson whispered as he wrapped his arms and his open coat, around Holmes's body. Shocked by the unexpected heat, and hardness, against his cold skin, Holmes shuddered.

The slight difference in their heights that worked to Gregson's advantage. "Jackass," he repeated into one icy cold ear, as they rocked together. "Do you trust me?" Holmes whimpered. "I said, do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Remember you said it, because we going to work it out. But, first, you've got this coming." Gregson shoved his knee between Holmes' legs and tipped him forward.

"What are you…?" Holmes started, suddenly as he felt his ass breached, and then yelped, "That stings!" He writhed and jerked in protest.

"Good!" Gregson took a firm grip around Holmes' waist and held on, growling, as he thrusting his fingers deeper. The chains, sliding in the rings, rattled and the locks bounced erratically. A key clipped Gregson's forehead. "Ouch! Watch it! You're going to bring this whole contraption down on top of us!" He had to let go of Holmes to grab the lock. Fortunately, they were the quick release sort. With one of them open, the chain could slide through both. It did and they were down. Gregson made sure that he was the one on top. God only knew how long Holmes had been waiting for him to pick up that voice mail, but he wasn't about to find out by giving him the slightest opportunity to get control of the situation.

By that time, though, Holmes had succumbed to the spreading heat and stopped struggling. He lay where he'd fallen, face down, ass up, flat out whimpering for other reasons than the sting in his tale, letting Gregson minister to him, sliding slickness in and out, working him until his muscles were pliable enough for fingers to be replaced with something more substantial than a fantasy.


End file.
